Looks
by That Buggy Girl
Summary: When Waspinator comments on Terrorsaur's new transmetal look, Terrorsaur is less than pleased with the results. When does a vain mech ever want to be told he isn't perfect?  Follow up to "Another Tomorrow"
1. Part 1

**Notes:** This is a piece that takes place some time after my fic _Another Tomorrow_. If you haven't read that, I strongly suggest you take a look at it before reading this, or some of it may not make sense.

I may continue this. I am not sure yet if I want to or not.

Anyway, happy reading!

* * *

"Should go back to way you were before, Terrorsaur."

It came out of the blue, one day.

Waspinator was huddled on the ground, trying to repair a computer console, a wide array of parts and tools and little finicky pieces of circuitry scattered around him. He'd been working on that very same computer for some time now and seemed to be making little-to-no progress.

Well, that's how it looked to Terrrorsaur, anyway, but what did he know about fixing computers?

Said pteranodon was slouched on a rock, lazy in the sun. To all outward appearances, it seemed as if he was just slacking off, basking in the late morning warmth and polishing himself. He really didn't have anything to do; most of the repair work was Waspinator's alone and Inferno, now that he was more functional, insisted on doing the hunting and gathering of parts - A task Terrorsaur was more than happy to let him have.

But despite his apparent idleness, Terrorsaur did have a goal: Keep Waspinator safe from the still-malfunctioning Quickstrike. It was easy to be lazy and keep an eye on his partner at the same time, after all.

"What the slag are you talking about?" Terrorsaur glanced up at the smaller mech, uncertain what exactly he meant.

Waspinator took a second the respond; he was busy trying to solder a microchip to a circuit board and that took most of his focus. "…Purple iz not good color for Terrorsaur. He looked better red. Should rescan old alt." The statement was incredibly matter-of-fact, as if it were truth, rather than opinion.

"Why in the Pit would I want to go back to that?" Terrorsaur sneered, "I was slow in that body, and weak. This is a much more effective form. The cold doesn't bother me as much, I'm faster than you now, more aerodynamic, and my weapons are far more deadly. No thanks; I think I'll keep the purple."

There was another long silence. Waspinator, it seemed, was purposely not looking at him, a thought which Terrorsaur found annoying. People should _always_ look at him; he was a glorious mech.

"Were better before." Waspinator stubbornly insisted, still focused intently on what he was doing.

…It was _very_ annoying not to be acknowledged.

The truth was, Waspinator had always had a difficult time _not_ looking at Terrorsaur in the past. He'd been smitten almost since the moment they were first introduced, even when Terrorsaur had insulted him and scoffed at his abilities. His partner had treated him decently at best, terribly at worst, but…Waspinator never could help it. The spark wants what the spark wants.

But lately…He hadn't been wanting Terrorsaur so much.

Sure, he was still the same on the inside, but…Ugh. That transmetal body. Waspinator hated it.

"Better? How was I _better_ before? I _just_ told you all the things that make me superior as I am now! How can you possibly still think I was better before?" Terrorsaur huffed, dropping his polishing rag in favor of folding his arms and sulking - He always had been a tad dramatic, "You tell me, Waspinator. What made me better, huh?"

"…Were beautiful before." Waspinator finally glanced up, watching as Terrorsaur blinked at the unexpected answer, his mouth opening and closing a few times, no words coming out.

Well. That had shut him right up.


	2. Part 2

Waspinator's laugh was a strange sound somewhere between a buzz and a giggle.

Terrorsaur had almost begun to forget what it sounded like; here and now, there was little to laugh about. There were too many stressors that came with trying to maintain a sense of normalcy while they were all stranded on Earth with limited resources for much of anything to seem funny. That sound, once so familiar and comforting, was something he hadn't heard -for good reason!- in a very long time.

And yet…Something that Inferno had said had struck the wasp as funny and he giggled, leaning in to rest a hand on Inferno's arm.

The ant, on the other hand, didn't laugh, but he did offer his companion a toothy grin, looking surprisingly at ease with the other insect touching him.

This seemed odd, given that all of Terrorsaur's memories of Inferno involved him having a iron rod so far up his aft he could have expelled steel.

But what was even more unusual was how close and comfortable the two seemed with one another.

Terrorsaur hadn't meant to spy on them; stepping out of the woods, he had just happened to come across the pair sitting on a fallen tree, and he'd stopped to watch, his presence completely undetected.

They were taking the odd moment of spare time to have a break and unwind. Leisure time was still a rarity; they were too busy surviving to slack off. But the two of them seemed completely relaxed and the way they were sitting -so close together!- suggested some hint of intimacy that made Terrorsaur squirm a little.

Waspinator and Inferno…? Nah; there was no way in the pit!

But their dynamic _had_ been different lately; they almost acted much more like equals. Like _partners_.

What had happened to them after Terrorsaur died?

Waspinator didn't talk about it -_wouldn't_ talk about it- and Terrorsaur wasn't about to ask Inferno or Quickstrike. Discussing personal feelings had never been something any of them were comfortable with, unless those feelings were in regards to their teammates or the Maximals, and now Terrorsaur was finding that he perhaps didn't know Waspinator as well as he believed.

The wasp wasn't at all as clumsy or stupid or useless as he had once thought.

In fact, Waspinator was more functional than any of them would ever have guessed. He was incredibly skilled in repairs, especially of small finicky parts. Terrorsaur supposed this might have something to do with the sheer amount of time Waspinator had spent repairing himself, but…then again, it might have been a natural talent.

Also, Waspinator was, surprisingly, a compassionate individual. He didn't really fit the typical Predacon mold and that was part of why so many of their comrades dismissed him so readily. It was also part of what intrigued Terrorsaur about him; how could the bug possibly have been through everything he'd survived and still be so…so…_kind_? Waspinator was no bleeding heart, not by any means, but he had a healthy amount of empathy for others when they had been blown apart, literally, verbally or otherwise.

He commanded a sort of quiet respect that Inferno was apparently more than willing to give.

Terrorsaur had failed to see these things that Inferno was now recognizing -and Inferno must have loved it, given his penchant to attempt organizing them into a cohesive "Colony"- failed to see them in all the long time he had known Waspinator. He hadn't looked hard enough; hadn't seen any of those redeeming qualities that proved Waspinator was more than a clumsy fool.

And that was why Waspinator was freely looking at Inferno with that adoring, trusting look he used to save for Terrorsaur.


	3. Part 3

**Notes: **Here ya go, Andrea :3

* * *

"Why you always starin' at 'em, Terry?"

Terrorsaur grunted, pointedly ignoring the question in favor of sorting through the muddy, greasy nuts and bolts Inferno had dumped at his feet earlier in the day. The task was simple enough - "Clean and organize them, you lazy fool!" - and he hardly needed any help, but when Quickstrike had wandered aimlessly over, Inferno decided that they needed to work together and barked at the fuzor to help, though what kind of help he could possibly be without proper hands had eluded Terrorsaur.

He was proving to be more of a hindrance than a help, and Terrorsaur was finding himself wanting to throttle his mismatched comrade more so than usual.

"C'mon, Terry. You can't pretend you ain't doin' it, 'cause I see you lookin' at them all the time." Quickstrike was taking some sick pleasure in this; Terrorsaur could tell. The fuzor may not have had a proper face and what he did have was less expressive than Waspinator's, but the flyer could _swear_ he could see a smirk stretching itself across the mech's faceplates. "It's a little creepy, butchoo flyers always were a little odd. Look at old 'Ferno, after all…"

Terrorsaur chose to ignore him, focusing instead on a pile of small washer-like pieces of metal that were caked with some kind of slimy, oily residue - Where had Inferno found these? They were disgusting! - and pulling out a scrub brush to clean them with. What they could have used -and could have used badly- was a couple bottles of solvent and metal cleaner, but, unfortunately, the Maximals' stash was somewhere beneath tons of rushing water at the base of the falls.

"So?" Quickstrike, tenacious as always, would never just drop the subject without a satisfactory answer, of course. "What's the deal with the starin'? You jealous or somethin'?"

"Is there something to be jealous about?" Terrorsaur didn't look up from the disgusting bits of metal, but his voice rose slightly in pitch, edging slightly on screechy, as it tended to do when he got worked up. Of course he wasn't jealous; why would he be? There was nothing to be jealous of! It's not like it was any of his business, what they did in their free time.

So why did it bother him so much, seeing them together?

"They ain't knockin' boots, if that's what you mean." The fuzor was practically vibrating with glee as he spoke, nuts and bolts rattling in the box clutched in his cobra head-hand. Clearly, the entertainment factor of this went beyond what Terrorsaur had believed; Quickstrike was enjoying the whole situation far too much for it to be healthy or normal.

"Inferno don't got no idea he's even capable of that." Quickstrike continued, "'Specially since Waspy ain't the Queen. It don't matter what kind of looks and signals the poor bug's givin' him -and he's been flirtin' somethin' bad, mind- old 'Ferno don't got a clue."

Now the fuzor was exaggerating to get a rise out of him; Terrorsaur was sure of it.

Why else would he be saying things like that?

Waspinator wasn't _flirting_ with Inferno; the very thought itself was ludicrous! The little touches, the tilt of his head, the way he sat so close to Inferno when they were relaxing…Those things were just Waspinator being Waspinator. How could he possibly be coming on to the other insect, when he wasn't treating Inferno any different than he'd treated Terrorsaur himself all those years?

_…Waitaminute._

Did this mean…?

Nah, it couldn't. That was _impossible_.

"He is not flirting." The pteranodon scoffed, "Waspinator doesn't flirt. He's just like that." It was impossible, because if it wasn't, it would have meant that Waspinator had been flirting with him this whole time and that was utterly ridiculous.

"…"

There was a long silence.

Then Quickstrike burst out laughing, manic and cackling. The bolts he'd been sorting went flying as he flopped on the ground, banging a fist of curled up scorpion legs against the dirt as he howled. "Oh, that's rich, Terry!" He could barely get the words out; he was laughing so hard, "Are you stupid or just in denial?"

"Hey!" Terrorsaur squawked, but Quickstrike jumped to his feet, cutting him off.

"Inferno's programming keeps him from noticing that Waspy wants him." He pulled a twig from one of his leg joints, composed and almost-dignified once again, and snapped it in half with the mouth of his cobra head.

Quickstrike didn't seem to care that Terrorsaur was about the heft a heavy metal box of screws at his head. He just turned -as bored with the task at hand as he seemed to be with the conversation- and marched off towards the cave, tossing one last comment over his shoulder.

"What's yer excuse?"


End file.
